The Lords Tears
by Skittifink Dagger
Summary: A Town run on religion and fear in terrible awe to the Brotherhood that live on the hill above them.  Once every 8 years, in the time of the eclipse they seek the reincarnation of their Lord that they may teach him their ways before he remembers his.
1. Chapter 1

The Lords Tears

He stepped over yet another filthy puddle, doubting very much that it was water due to the acrid stench that came from it he had lifted his robe to avoid carrying the stench of 'outside' with him into his sacred rooms.

Covering his mouth and nose with a sleeve he passed scores of beggars on the streets, all seemingly happy to sit in any amount of pungent muck. Hands outstretched and head down it was difficult to discern which of the wretches were asleep or indeed dead seeing as the time of year was getting to the colder months.

_Almost a pity_, the acolyte thought, _It might not be too bad that they froze overnight. Doubtful they would even feel it._

A pang of conscience immediately made his stomach flutter the way it usually did. But no where near as strongly as once it did.

An entire city in despair breeds very little love, too little to be evident. Even one that had taken the oath to care, to be one of the few shining beacons.

Maer felt that he should acknowledge those that bowed at the hip to him, whispered hopes to him, reached a hand but dare not touch. It was against his orders way to see them unless they needed to be seen. They were the others, those too weak in the Lords eyes.

It was a strict Lord, one whose feet had not trod the soil of this world for many generations.

He turned the corner to the small trinket shop that was his destination, the shopkeeper saw him though a curtainless window and rushed outside to open the door before him.

Maer did not scuff the filth off his boots before entering the timber floored shack, some straw and herbs strewn about attempted to disguise the waft of stench that drifted thought the unbolted door and windows. Sadly all that it in fact served to do was stick to the brothers mud encrusted boots and catch in the hem of his white robe.

The shopkeeper, a man Maer knew to be his own age of twenty and seven summers looked old enough to have fathered him. Deep creases cleft his forehead, beneath his eyes the skin hung loose and puffy as sacks of spices in leather pouches.

Although oft to be found in this small shed of a shop his face was an almost sickly leathery brown that spoke of endless toil in the fields dibbling, ploughing if someone would rent him two oxen, chasing crows or maybe just collecting the stones off the topsoil that the crop might grow deeper roots and yield that extra measure of grain.

He waited, head bowed and hands on the small crooked table that in his credit at least did not wobble and although rough was relatively clean.

"Ink, man." was all that Maer spoke.

The shopkeeper immediately animated into action and brought, head still bowed, two vials of black ink, one of red and a small mismatched glass bottle of turquoise ink - his entire stock.

"Gesso."

The man's shoulders slumped further into himself and slowly his shook his head.

"Hrm!" Maer took the inks and stored them in his leather carry bag, padding them with a light scarf to ensure they stayed upright, as an afterthought he turned and dropped a small silver coin on the table between the man's hands before placing a gloved hand on the shopkeepers tangled and greasy hair that was so reminiscent of the kelp lowering tides revealed that it may as well have been the same thing.

"Blessing of the Lord for your ever faithful service." Maer said the words that ever since entering the store the shopkeeper would have given his daughter for.

_Not that I would want that filthy urchin_, Maer reflected.

In accordance with tradition, only after the blessing was the man allowed to look into the brothers eyes and even so peeked cautiously beneath his scant brows. One eye almost useless due to a milky cataract the other soon to follow, Maer broke the gaze and turned towards the door. Again the man sprung to life and rushed to hold the door for the brother, leaving the silver on the table. Money was not as important as the blessing of the Lord.

One hand again clutching his robe at the knee that it did not trail in the mud of the street, the other steadying the bag at his hip Maer followed his own footsteps back to the monastery that was the heart of the city.

The Lords chapel stood at the highest point of the land by the shoreline that served as the cities incredibly fetid food basket.

The chapel was ringed with two parallel running ditches that during the rainy months filled knee high with water. A sturdy stone built bridge was the only connection to the outside world.

Huffing and puffing with exertion Maer turned at the bridge to catch his breath, he had let go of his robe at the foot of the hill, scuffed his heels on the clipped grass at the foot of the rise for a good few breaths, moved to a clean piece of grass and repeated the action until his boots shone with dew. It was a sin to sully this holy place with the filth from below.

Looking out to the inlet he could see the fishermen at work in what could best be described s rafts. _Lucky for them the catch was never big, else they might capsize._

The Tide was lowering and kelp burners in their full numbers were already building fires on the shoreline, they would work the night if the tides allowed it, Maer prayed that the wind would not turn. The spectacle of the firelight bouncing off the clouded waves and the white smoke was reasonably spectacular from a good vantage point but the oily smoke that the burners generated was far from pleasant.

His prayers seemingly answered at a cost as a waft of wind from the west brought with it the reek of the woad dyers and Maer's musing was cut short. Turning he walked briskly towards the inner courtyard.

Here a few brown robed youths worked doubled over in sorting the rocks of the courtyard into a flat surface. A task he remembered all too well from his first weeks here.

Feet bare and cold all year around, hands scuffed and nail-less from the rocks. He recalled how his back would crack painfully when the straightened at the end of the day, how his thighs would ace the next morning.

One day he toiled from dawn and well into the next dawn and the night that followed, saying his prayer as he placed every stone.

Until a feeling of light headedness claimed him and the world began to spin, dark splotches and bright lights floated like fireflies and bumblebees before him until he could barely see the rocks and had to feel for them.

The next morning he awoke to find the priest in charge of the new recruits by his bed, he had been given the white robe of an acolyte that day. His faith apparently proven by his praying to exhaustion. The rest of the lads were sent home to become farmers, fishers, candle makers.

_Or_ _shopkeepers,_ Maer thought almost bitterly before walking on.

Depositing the ink on the head scribes desk it was now he that lowered his eyes and waited to be shooed away with a wave of a gloved hand.

Sitting momentary by the well in the centre courtyard he dipped the pewter ladle into the bucket and drank a few swallows before even thirst was better than the earthy and slightly metallic taste of the water. Another white robed acolyte approached, a lad younger than him called Niin.

"Brother." it was forbidden to use names on holy ground.

"Brother." Maer returned the sad excuse for a greeting.

"The pontiff requests you attend him at once."

Maer dropped the ladle back into the bucket with a splash, stood, brushed his robes and crossed the courtyard to the main tower.

The stairs again challenged his stamina, he was not a portly man, that would be against the orders code. But he was a man accustomed to a higher existence, one of prayer, writing and meditation. Only occasionally was he or one of his rank sent to the town for whatever the brothers needed, the common folk were not permitted near the chapel.

It was a strange mix of egotism and saintly sacrifice that the acolytes left their home and went amongst the masses. The masses needed to see the white robes, the clean gloves and smooth faces of the acolytes to give them hope, for whilst such saints trod the same earth as them they dared not despair. They were reminded that they are still and will, so long as the chapel stands, be blessed.

The large door craved with a forest motive and inlaid with mother-of-pearl was opened by another brown robed, barefoot newcomer who bowed deep to Maer, who in turn payed the lad no heed whatsoever and walked on.

The pontiff's room was strewn with the fur of bears and wolves underfoot the stone walls covered with thick fabric to deter any drafts, large and long windows inlaid with horn let just enough light in that reading was a chore but not impossible during the day.

"Brother."

Nothing brotherly about the word, the Pontiff may as well have addressed him as "Flea."

"Brother"

Everything brotherly in Maer's reply, and he knew that the Pontiff hated it. No need to stifle a smile - long years at the monastery had turned Maer's face to marble and his insides to acid.

Once perhaps the pontiff was a man of good build but that time was gone, now he was a gaunt, hollow cheeked man. Tall, but not overly so. The skin once filled with the muscle of a brothers toil long unused and slack as sacks on his bones.

"The feast of the saint is passed eight times since the last darkening of the sun and we are due for another. During this time it is our burden to scour the land for the reincarnation of our Lord. I wish you shed the robes of acolyte and part take in this search."

For all the warmth, glory and splendour his voice tried to paint the pontiff may as well have told Maer to go look for the last edible stump of carrot in a cesspit.

Maer bowed, one hand on his heart eyes downcast, his spine again crunched as he stood.

And stood.

And stood some more.

Until.

"The Lords blessing on you, may He grant you success in your search."

Maer lifted his eyes and met those of the pontiff.

_I will sit in your chair one day old man._ Maer promised with a look

_Never._ retorted the pontiffs red rimmed eyes.

"Go now about your business."

Maer turned on his heel and marched to the door. The lad had lifted his eyes in the blessing but had left them raised a second too long and accidentally met Maer's as he walked past.

The, now promoted, brother stood before the lad and let his grey eyes bore into the top of the lads quickly lowered skull.

He waited.

And waited.

The lads hand began to tremble on the door where he held it.

And still Maer waited.

Slowly and still unsure the lad sank to his knees, the faint reek of urine now emanating from his robe.

Maer walked on, his soft boots making little sound save the slight rustle as the fur brushed his robe when placing one foot before the other.

Returning to his small cell Maer found the dark robes and mask of an inquisitor hanging on the hook by his bed. It was a promotion of sorts but he would have preferred to remain an acolyte for another eclipse.

Now he had go back amongst the masses.

People would thrust their sons at him. Maybe even touch him with their filthy hands. He shuddered at the unpleasant mental picture and washed his hands and face at the mere thought of the city beyond the walls.

In accordance to the code he ate nothing for the rest of the day then prayed though the night before seeking out the baths where he shed his white acolytes robe the last time and washed away that status.

Standing in his boots and undergarments he took a moment to gather his thoughts as to the ritual ahead.

Reciting first the prayer of the Lords blessing he put on his new robe, dark and heavy, the hems sewn with thread-of-gold in straight lines up to the elbows. The second prayer was that of the blessed hands, whilst reciting this he slipped on first the left then the right glove briefly dismayed that they were a tad too tight for him but being leather they would soon conform to the shape of his hands.

The stole was next, the deep grey of an angry sky it was also embroidered with gold and black. First he kissed the orders sigil which was embroidered on the very centre of the strip of fabric and would sit behind his neck. He slipped it around his shoulders saying the few lines demanded of him. Dressed fully in his robe the took a moment to familiarise himself with the weight of the fabric, heavy but not oppressively so. Almost comforting he concluded, the white acolytes robe was woven of flimsier stuff and made him feel naked in comparison, this was holy armor befitting of the outside.

Last was the mask, he faced it front on looking through the empty sockets of eyes.

The features lax, but not peaceful.

The mask itself was a replica of the death mask of the Lords last incarnation, once the wax mask was cast form his dead face it was copied in stone by masons and that sculpture was now still used to make the inquisitors stretched leather mask.

For the next few weeks Maer would be no brother and no man. He would be an Inquisitor. He and a few others would walk the city and the surrounds seeking the new incarnation of the Lord.

Once they found the candidates the boys would be brought to the chapel and there tested to discern which, if any, is the new manifestation of the Lord on earth.

Taking a breath he cleared his mind and left only the thoughts befitting an inquisitor. Whispering the prayers of the hunt he set the mask over his features, tied the back tight and set the hood of the robe on his head.

At fist he thought that the robes, being black, would be more resilient to the dirt and grit of the city but he was soon sorely disappointed. It didn't take long for the foul grey-brown, clay heavy soil underfoot to be splattered up to his knees.

As he had foreseen, now that he was no shining and pure beacon to then they were less inclined to back away from him and indeed the opposite was true. He again looked at the mud smeared hand print on his left sleeve.

It bothered him.

But he was calm about it, these were just the Lords trials for him and must be endured as life is endured.

Today was the last day that the inquisitors searched, a handful of days from now the eclipse would darken the world once more and, Lord willing, reveal which of the boys they had taken was indeed the chosen one.

Maer breathed heavily beneath his mask, none of the beggars sons that he had so far seen had anything holy about them he reflected, indeed he felt he should be apologising when, at the end of the day the ox driven cart returned to the church with the lads.

They were taken care of by the acolytes then, fed clothed and then given a room to wait in until the ceremony.

"Take my boy, sir. Sir?"

Maer's thoughts were interrupted by a woman standing hunched behind a lad who looked very much like he did not want to be there.

It was quite apparent that she, as so many do in these parts, wore all of her finest and was to that end a formless, garishly bright and mismatched shape. From the red leather boots with a pom-pom on the toe to the turquoise and blue headscarf keeping the grey wires of hair out of her face.

Maer looked the boy over, as per instructions. The lad was dressed in un-dyed tough wool and cotton, his feet were bare but relatively clean, he had recently been deprived of his boots.

_Don't want to waste the leather you old crone, even on your grandson._

"How old?"

"Eight, sir! Eight, like what you are looking for!"

"Born in what season?"

"In the cold, sir."

"Come here boy."

The lad was pushed towards him more than he walked, and even so stood a step before the inquisitor his hands knotting on the hem of his shirt to stop them shaking. All in all the boy's composure was the best he had seen all day. Thank the Lord he wasn't crying. Maer hated when they did that.

"What is your name boy?"

"His na.." the crone began.

Maer held up his hand to silence her.

"Boy? Your name?"

Maer waited.

The boy squirmed under the mask's stone features but still did not reply. Another minute passed and he looked back towards the old crone who was beginning to look worried.

Again Maer spoke, rougher this time, his patience wearing thin. "Your name, boy."

A second lad identical to the boy presented to him bounded out of the house, dressed in colours more matching the woman "He wont answer you." He rushed to the boys side "He was born mute. Ma says is 'cos we shared the womb. That there was only one voice in there."

The twins clung to each other before the black clad figure, the grandmother covering her mouth with a sleeve. Her plan to palm off a seemingly worthless mute grandson foiled by the one person in the world that sill had a conscience. Maer knew what any normal inquisitor might do, Lord knowing what any normal man might do but his patience, a patience that had always teethed on a knifes edge finally faltered him. He fixed his grey eyes on the new boy who visibly stiffened at the sight of the seemingly unnaturally bright eyes in the sockets of the black leather death mask. Beneath his mask Maer was smiling as he said it "What is your name boy?"

The crone sprang between them "You cant take _him_."

For the first time it was Maer that grabbed another as he wrapped his gloved hand around the dual scarves about the crones shoulders "I can take whoever I wish, hag." Maer growled the words and would have spat were it not for the mask "And unless you wish me to remove any blessing upon this house and cast out your entire family from this stinking tannery of a town, you will test my composure no further. Am I understood?"

Tears threatened to spill, but not for the mute grandson, she nodded not meeting Maer's eyes in a challenge any further, a deed that would have warranted excommunication as it was. She had tested her limits, gambled, lost, and now she would pay for it.

Both grandsons would be taken from her leaving her with no help in her old age, no company in the cold winter nights, no heads to knit caps for.

Maer let the woman go and she, despite her finery fell to her knees in sorrow. Undoubtedly afraid at the reaction of the father not to mention the mother of the lads.

"On the cart boys."

They obeyed without a word or a glance, their hands linked as they trudged to the wooden wheeled structure, one helped the other up who in turn pulled the mute one into the straw beside him.

Maer mounted the steps to the seat at the front of the cart and bade the ox driver 'walk on', their business in the town was quite done.

The night before the eclipse the handful of boys, eight years old - born in the winter months following the previous darkening of the sun were herded into the stone courtyard where the brown robes set about stripping and scrubbing the boys with the well water, they were all given a grey tunic and hose, no shoes and then lined up for the pontiff to inspect.

As always when he left his chamber high in the tower he was accompanied by two acolytes who swung censers pouring oppressively heavy smoke beside him. White hoods covering their bowed heads, stepping in unison beside the pontiff in his crimson habit was indeed an impressive sight. Only Maer spared a thought as to their suffering, knowing full well that the fragrant smoke was pleasant from a few meters away but in such close proximity would choke the lungs and make ones eyes water. Probably why they wore their hoods so low.

At his gesture the boys stopped their shuffling and whispering. In the span of a few weeks Maer had been again promoted to High Inquisitor for his ways of dealing with the lads and their families. In previous search years it was oft the case that Inquisitors turned to violence and raised voices whence taking boys. A word, a mere glance form him would suffice to silence the weeping wife, nattering crone and puffed up red-faced fathers it seems. Not one boy that he had been sent to or found was denied him. And the lads looked to his every gesture simply put because he frightened them. At night few of them could sleep soundly in their straw beds, they saw him in the shadows everywhere. Pinpricks of lights, dust reflecting the moonlight, a small phosphorescent insect or just their imagination and they would the glint of eyes in the dark, dark stone cells.

Him, the black demon that came and took them from their homes. So few would know him now from the white clad beacon that he once was and Maer was not all too keen to returning.

On the other hand some families were all too keen to part with part of their brood, not just because it was one less mouth to feed, one less back to clothe, but also because if indeed their son was taken the family would be honoured and rewarded handsomely but the Pontiff.

Seeing the man before him now Maer doubted that the reward was more than a handful of coins, the malnourished Pontiff so avariciously inclined to hoarding all this wealth within his chambers, though decades of the churches occupation of the small mound that dominated the city had seen no nook or cranny not gilt with gold, silver or copper at the very least.

Having completed his second march up and down the row of stiff backed boys the pontiff stopped before the High Inquisitor "Brother."

This time rank allowed it and Maer met the man's gaze squarely "Brother." and this time it was _his_ tone that said 'flea'.

Momentarily the muscles in the pontiffs cheeks clenched cutting parallel shadows across the sides of his face "A goodly number of lads ... brother."

_Ahh, the old man still has it. _

Maer lowered his eyes "By the Lords holy will."

"Indeed. Take them to their designated rooms, then attend me in my chamber. At the second chime to the day we shall set about the tests."

Maer nodded his bowed head and again with mere gesture let the boys in single file behind him to the southern wing of the church complex. It bothered him that the twins now again linked hands, he gave them a stern look that they disregarded but he could not fault them overly much as they still marched along with the other seventeen boys quietly.

The south wall was not quite so glamorous as the rest of the building complex. Shaped flints still covered the very outside of the walls and gleamed like wet fish scale when the light struck it. Simple buttresses served as wall supports but were meeker than the flying buttresses that the north and east side boasted. The windows though painted, possibly as an afterthought, were horn criss-crossed with leaden supports and when the sun was just right would leave any white robed brother discoloured into a medley of red, blue and yellow.

It was not recorded but Maer was certain that this southern extension was an addition to the main church years after it had been built.

One of the boys again began to sob softly breaking him out of his mid-walk meditation, it was nearly over though, so he let him. So long as he didn't set the others off.

Each boy was placed into a small square room on either side of a long hall, each room had a small straw mound covered with a washed but worn woollen blanket, something for the lads to sit or lie on while the tests were being conducted on the other boys. The hallway held ten cells a side, Maer had done well nearly filling the entire compliment. Though his thoughts did wonder what they would do had be brought more. Again his musings were cut short by the last two boys to be locked behind their cells door. The twins, he should have known.

The mute one looked to him tears streaking his cheeks in bight lines. "What now?" His duty almost over he would tolerate very little more in the way of distractions. Then the boy looked up at him.

Maer stood for the first time fixed by eyes light as his own but blue and clear as the spring sky.

The boy, whose name Maer still didn't know, dished out the same stare that Maer himself so often served. His entire body seemed the clacker of an enormous bell and resonated with its ringing from his back teeth to the dual bones in his shins and forearms. The boy then parted his lips and mouthed the words perfectly as the other twin spoke them "They will kill us all you know."

"Brother!" A sharp tone from behind him brought him back, he felt the rough hewn flagstones dig into his knees and found himself kneeling before the mute boy, their eyes at the same level.

"The pontiff will see you now!" again that sharp voice. Another Inquisitor stood a silhouette in the doorway, a rough hand grabbed his Maer's arm and pulled him upright "The pontiff is waiting. The Lords will be done soon brother. I will see to these two."

The black gloved hands took each a boy and put first the speaking one behind a door as he kicked and wailed then the mute one who could only mouth the wails his brother voiced. Maer turned from them, the silent wails of the boy, they shook him deep in his gut. To see a scream but not hear it, such a spectacle Maer had never been witness too. It was though he could hear him crying with his soul and not his ears.

Once out of the proximity of the children he was again overcome with his regular cold calm, again he took a moment by the well and took a sip of the water. Perhaps it was the pewter ladle that made the water taste so foul. Be it what it may, it was here for a reason.

Maer chastised himself mentality for his recent questioning. Everything here was the Lords will. If the pewter ladle made the water taste foul - then it was meant to do so. If the poor starved in their beds while he ate the fresh bread the monastery made then that was how the Lord willed it. And if those boys were all to die?

_Then none are the chosen one._

Quickly he stood, and brisked past the brown robes again sorting stones. Ascended the stairs to the pontiffs mother-of-pearl decorated door with the calm he had come to expect of himself. The door opened again by the same lad who still stunk of urine.

No greetings this time, the pontiff was attended by four other black robed Inquisitors.

"Sit brother."

Maer did so.

"Your toils this search have not gone unnoticed."

_Was that a compliment or a threat?_

"Give me your stole."

_A demotion then..._

Maer took the fabric that marked him as High Inquisitor from about his shoulders, kissed the holy glyph at its base. Folded it in accordance to ritual and placed it on the Pontiffs dark wooden desk.

"Very good. You shall have it back after the morrow."

Maer very nearly looked up that he might read the pontiffs expression. _What is this? Have it back? Not a demotion then._

"Whence you attend myself and your brother inquisitors you shall neither be known by face nor by rank."

Maer was new to the ways of an Inquisitor and never did it hit home more than now - why did he not read up on this ritual more when he had a chance. Again he mentally cursed his lack of discipline and vowed to himself that it would be the first and the last time.

The pontiff took a ring off his finger, a small silver band with a key running at a right angle from the band, unlocked a small chest on his desk and took from there five keys. One he passed to Maer, one to each Inquisitor at his side then indicated a large locked trunk half hidden by a tapestry depicting green clad hunters hunters, their ludicrously oversized crossbows aimed at a white stag, whilst dogs sat at their heels.

Each key had a lock with corresponding sigil above the keyhole, in turn each turned their key and the lid opened revealing the inside to be velvet lined. Having seen very little in the way of light the last eight years the fabric was obviously old but not faded. Within the velvet dividers were five identical bottles blown form a deep blue glass, each half filled with a liquid that may or may not be black, it was imposable to tell through the glass.

" 'The Lords Tears', a concoction that induces a state of holy hallucination. There the boys there face themselves, then the last incarnation of the Lords earthly body. While in this state they shall appear in a deep sleep. If they are not awakened when the light again graces the land then they are to be taken to the crypt, their bones added to those gone before them. If the one we seek is amongst them his soul will return to his body and live on to guide us in the Lords way."

Each inquisitor in turn took one of the bottles and a golden gilt goblet.

"A sip shall suffice. Now go my brothers, my blessed seekers. I give you my most holy blessing in this time. I pray that you find him. Too long our beacon has been absent of light."

Maer followed suit with the other, obviously more experienced inquisitors. His pride already had taken a beating he was not about to make any more mistakes. The keys returned to the small box, goblet in right hand, bottle in the their left they began their descent to the southern wing.

Maer was given another one of five keys that unlocked the boys cells and began his work. The first cell he opened was the boy of a farmer he had found. Hair the colour of straw and roughly of the same consistency hid his eyes from him, not that he cared to look at them any more. He cared for nothing more than his duty, repeating a few words he had recently overheard as best he could remember softly lest he get them wrong he filled the goblet with the Lords tears. A liquid black as his robes, smelling overly sweet and with a hint of bitterness that it was meant to mask but did not quite succeed in doing so.

The lad was beyond being afraid, something Maer was glad for as he again heard sobs and questions from the other inquisitors cells. He drank a sip and then again sat on his blanket as Maer locked the door behind him.

He was not so lucky with the next boy who refused to drink a sip, another Inquisitor passed the door and not knowing what else to do Maer squeezed the boys cheeks between one gloved hand until he forced his lips open then clamped the same hand over the boys nose and mouth until he swallowed the liquid. Leaving and locking that room Maer noted a nod of approval from another, older inquisitor. His pride and confidence again stoked he went on about his task.

Once all boys had been given seen to, the inquisitors again ascended the stairs to the pontiffs office who measured the remains of the bottles without touching them then had them put them back in the trunk before ordering everyone into the courtyard to observe the beginnings of the eclipse.

The large black bell in the tower began its deep chime as the skies turned to an ashen grey, all eyes turned skyward for the duration of the spectacle. Midday turned to midnight within an hour as the bell continued its chime. The deep ringing not being joined this time by the two smaller bells that would give its tune a lighter feel.

Once the last chime faded, and its echo across the lake had ceased ringing in the brothers ears the pontiff without a words swept his arm in a wide arc sending all but his inquisitors back to their rooms, Almost missing the cue Maer bowed in unison before the pontiff with the other four who then also were dismissed.

For the next day, or however long the darkness lasted they would not go amongst the town, they would not speak, eat or do anything but pray, contemplate the new coming of the Lords incarnation and whatever that would mean for the world.

Maer woke with a start. Again he had prayed himself to exhaustion. And it was not the bells ringing in his ears that marked the next ringing-in of the next suns age that he awoke to, he awoke to nothing but silence, a silence that this year seemed less holy and more stifling than he remembered. He could still hear the boys in their cells, and that one question that no one would answer them : "When can we go home?"

His mask had come loose and lay half on and half off his face. He studied his pale reflection in the bowl of water he was given for washing and shaving. His skin the same pale grey as his eyes due to the lack of sunlight that he scarce saw even before his promotion. There was a knock on the door. The noise jolted him even tough it was a mere tap.

Quickly he fixed a stern expression on his face and the mask tightly over that before answering the door to his four brother inquisitors and the pontiff, this time not accompanied by censer bearers and clad in the same black as his cohorts.

He inclined his head in such a way as to ask Maer to follow and quickly.

Leading the way again to the south wing it was not until the heavy wrought iron and ashen doors were securely locked behind them did he break with tradition and speak "We have a problem."

Maer did not know if he should, or even could answer until given permission.

A voice beside him made it seem that he could, muffled behind the stationery leather lips of his mask the other inquisitor spoke "This is too irregular. We cannot have this Pontiff."

"Don't you think I know that?" the pontiff taking great care to keep his voice low whilst flustered to the point of being as crimson in the face as the robes he usually wore "We will have to take care of it. That's why I asked you here Maer."

_Names now? What tradition shall we break with next? _

Maer was shocked in some small way but excited all the same, finally it seemed he was being allowed into the inner sanctum of the pontiffs trust.

"What seems to be the problem?" Maer put as much confidence into the question as he could.

"We found Him."

Not a hint of jubilation in the pontiffs voice. Quite the opposite.

There was a pause, no one moved or spoke."We never intended to find 'Him'. It compromises everything, you see."

Maer was speechless at the revelation.

"The last incarnation was problematic. None now remember him other than the masks but, he had all these outrageous ideas. Equality he wanted! Equality indeed!" he all but spat the word "Do you know what would happen if they," he gestured to the general 'outside' "the filth got it in their heads that they as much blessed as we? It would be chaos Maer! We would loose everything!" The pontiff calmed himself "You seem ambitious to me, brother. Something I have always valued amongst my clergy." he reached to his belt and unsheathed a long and curved blade. "Do this one thing for me and you shall have my seat when I am no more. I will announce your promotion with the coming of the sun."

And there it was: kill the incarnation of the Lord he had prayed for, for his whole life, or: risk chaos, demotion, humiliation and poverty.

Maer took the blade from the pontiffs gloved hand, ambition and rank had served him well enough until now.

Another masked figure quietly opened a cell door and Maer went in quietly.

The mute boy sat alert and wide eyed on the straw, he wasn't trembling although for certain he had overheard the conversation. Maer knelt down before the boy, removed his black gloves and mask. Why he did not know, it felt right to do so. He stroked the boys soft hair, and pulled the small body towards himself. Perhaps glad of the contact, perhaps knowing there was no way out the lad wrapped his arms about Maer's waist.

His pale moon-like face luminescent in the dark cell.

Again and for the last time their eyes met knowing he needed no voice to speak Maer mouthed the words "There is no other way." before he plunged the daggers full length into the lads back. The small body stiffened in his arms, eyes squeezing shut as the tremors of death shook him again and again until finally the small body went limp, pale blue eyes slowly opening as life began to seep from them. Maer withdrew the blade and pushed the body back onto the straw.

Keeling there, hands crimson as a pontiffs robes clutched to his stomach he rocked himself for a few heartbeats. A brother, inquisitor, murderer and now pontiff. Was this the natural progression? Was this the way that it had always been? Is this the way it will always be?

Maer felt no sorrow, no hate, no joy at his promotion. Just empty and, beyond that disgust at himself and what he had done. Again he touched the boys hair and whispered into his ear "I will change it Lord, if you can forgive what I had to do. I swear I will change it."

The lads eyes seemed to darken then, to loose all shade as the soul departed the body and went to the beyond Maer could dream about.

Again he slipped his hands into his gloves, the blood made them feel strange, he put on his mask which also seemed alien now. He stood, turned and opened the door to the waiting pontiff.

"Its done." he handed the knife back to the slack faced man "Acknowledge me. Here. Now. And before these witnesses as your new spiritual leader and pontiff."

The pontiffs eyes bulged at the demand, mouth opening and closing as a fish that gasps for air on land.

Maer waited.

And waited more, as was his wont to do.

Until the four black robed men at this side knelt in unison to him, their heads bowed, their hands over their hearts.

"When my time comes I said!" The man finally protested.

Maer removed his leather mask and fixed his sky blue eyes on the pitiful man "Your time, is well overdue."


	2. Chapter 2

ORIGINAL ENDING:

Thankfully he was not facing him, he didn't have to see those eyes again.

Weighing the dagger in his hand briefly Maer plunged it deep into the boys gut though his back.

The small body stiffened in his arms but he held him tight. In his mind he could see that mouth again pulled wide in a scream without voice.

Now limp the withdrew the blade and pushed the body back onto the straw.

Again he slipped his hands into his gloves, the blood made them feel strange, he put on his mask and opened the door to the waiting pontiff.

One of the others took the blade from his hand, and softly clapped him on the shoulder. Maer didn't feel anything. No sorrow, no hate, no joy at his promotion. Just empty.

The Pontiff took the stole from about his own neck and placed the embroidered fabric around Maers neck just as Maer felt a blade plunge into his back. The tip piercing his lung leaving him no air to scream.


End file.
